


Routine

by Rianne



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Courfeyrac, Asexuality, Coming Out, Cuddling & Snuggling, Demiromantic Character, Fluff, Genderqueer Character, M/M, Non-Binary Jehan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 14:34:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2154210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rianne/pseuds/Rianne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the routine:</p><p>He sees someone cute. He asks the person out on a date. If there’s a second date, he kisses them if they want to. But kissing is where the problems start, because the other wants more. And Courfeyrac really, really doesn’t, unless the “more” consists exclusively of “more kissing” and “cuddling”. So the next step in the routine, when he notices that the other person is starting to entertain the idea of having sex with him, is to tell himself that he should be open and honest and come clean about whatever is wrong with him, and hope for the best. He hasn’t managed to convince himself yet. Instead, he chickens out and tells the other person it isn’t going to work out at the end of the third date.</p><p>His routine works pretty well, until he falls in love with his best friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Routine

**Author's Note:**

> To my ace buddy Marnel.
> 
> Based on an ace!Courfeyrac headcanon I saw on Tumblr (http://my-miserables-obsession.tumblr.com/post/81639105896/queerpercy-i-need-asexual-courfeyrac-feeling#notes). I wrote this in one day and it hasn't been extensively spell-checked or betaed, so if there are any mistakes, let me know.
> 
> Warning that Courfeyrac angsts quite a bit over being asexual.
> 
> Also my personal headcanon here is that Combeferre is demiromantic, which is why he knows about the asexuality/aromanticism spectrum, but it doesn't really come up in the fic itself.

Courfeyrac can’t count the number of dates he’s been on.

He likes dating. He likes meeting new people, spending time with them, making them laugh. The people he dates seem to enjoy spending time with him, even if they don’t always sign up for a second date. Sometimes they do sign up for a second date, and even a third.

There’s never a fourth date.

This is the routine:

He sees someone cute. Boy, girl, non-binary, it doesn’t really matter. People catch Courfeyrac’s eye for all sorts of reasons: he wears a cool shirt, xir hair is dyed in rainbow colours, she held a passionate speech about gender-neutral bathrooms, zie just has such a sweet smile.

He asks the person out on a date. Very occasionally, someone will ask him, but he’s generally too forward for it. Before anyone gets a chance to even consider asking him, he’s already scribbling down his phone number or dropping down in the chair next to theirs to compliment their opinions or their fashion sense and ask, “So how about coffee some time?”

Generally, though not always, people say yes.

He doesn’t kiss on the first date, even though he has a feeling most of his dates expect it. He knows he’s ridiculously outgoing and there are stereotypes about that. He tells himself that he doesn’t kiss because he wants to disprove the stereotype. Really, he doesn’t kiss so he can postpone the inevitable for at least one more date.

If there’s a second date, he kisses them if they want to. They generally want to. It’s nice – kissing’s nice. The thing is, though, that kissing is where the problems start. He can usually tell when he and the other person break apart: the other wants more. And Courfeyrac really, really doesn’t, unless the “more” consists exclusively of “more kissing” and “cuddling”.

He knows he’s not normal. He’s known it since puberty, or maybe even before that. He thinks he remembers feeling different even when he was eight or nine and his mum gave him The Talk and the prospect of doing… _that_ … only filled him with mild disgust. Either way, he knew for sure in high school when all his friends started talking about sex and boobs and girls (in that order of importance, he remembers with disdain for his patriarchally-influenced teenage self and his patriarchally-influenced teenage-self’s friends).

He used to think he was just a late bloomer, until he went to university and started dating. Before the routine, there was a time when he’d go on more than three dates with the same person. There had been this girl he really liked, a girl called Anne who was a maths major with dark skin and short natural hair and a pretty smile, who was smart and kind. He’d wished so much that the whole sex deal would get better if he just met the right person that he’d gone along with what she wanted. It had been _awful_ , just messy and disgusting and not at all worth repeating. He suspected that he hadn’t been able to hide his feelings well, because Anne hadn’t picked up when he called and had never texted him or spoken to him again.

Not a late bloomer, then.

So the next step in the routine, when he notices that the other person is starting to entertain the idea of having sex with him, is to tell himself that he should be open and honest and come clean about whatever is wrong with him, and hope for the best.

He hasn’t managed to convince himself yet.

Instead, he chickens out and tells the other person it isn’t going to work out at the end of the third date.

His routine works pretty well, until he falls in love with his best friend.

\--

He met Combeferre in a Gender Studies class during his second year of university. There had been three men in the entire class: Courfeyrac, Combeferre (at this point known to Courfeyrac only as Handsome Stranger With Glasses) and a guy named Montparnasse. Montparnasse had disrupted the first class to ask about the use of feminism for men and had promptly launched into a rant when the female professor told him that wasn’t the topic of the day’s class. The rant had ended with “So I want to know what my role as a man is in feminism,” at which point Courfeyrac had enough. He got up and turned around and snapped, “Your role is to sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up until further notice,” to general applause from the rest of the group.

The professor was less pleased and he got kicked out of the lecture for swearing. Go figure.

He went to have coffee in the Musain, the organic fair-trade coffee shop around the corner. He was still there after the lecture, when someone pulled back the chair on the other side of the table and gracefully folded himself into it. Courfeyrac looked up from his phone to find Handsome Stranger With Glasses sitting opposite him with his hands curled around a latte.

“Hi,” said Handsome Stranger. “I’m Combeferre. From your Gender Studies class? I just wanted to say, I took notes.”

“Oh,” Courfeyrac said.

“Yes, I was thinking, you shouldn’t miss out on anything important just because you told Montparnasse the truth. Someone had to do it. Although might I suggest not swearing next time?” Combeferre smiled at him and continued, “As I said, I took notes. Would you like to exchange email addresses? I was going to type them out regardless, so I’ll just forward them to you.”

“Yeah, sure,” Courfeyrac said, a little surprised at the turn things have taken. Who types out their notes, anyway? He grabbed a receipt and a pen and scribbled down his email address.

“Cool, I’ll send them through,” Combeferre said. “Also, do you want to study together some time? It might be useful since we’re taking the same class. I’m usually at the top floor of the library with my friend, you’re welcome to join us.”

“Sure,” Courfeyrac said again, grinning at how friendly and inviting Handsome Stranger With Glasses turned out to be.

“Cool,” Combeferre repeated. “All right, I have to go, but I’ll see you around.” He grabbed his latte, waved at him, and left the Musain.

And that had been that.

Combeferre’s study buddy turned out to be his best friend and incurable idealist Enjolras, and the three of them got on like a house on fire. Four years later, they’re sharing a flat and running social justice group Les Amis together. Enjolras works at a law firm and takes on a lot of pro bono cases, to absolutely nobody’s surprise. Last year he got his act together and asked out Grantaire, again to nobody’s surprise. They argue a lot. Also to nobody’s surprise.

Combeferre is still in med school and works part-time at a book store (because _of course_ he does). He studies far more than he should yet somehow manages to find time to run Les Amis’ rallies and help out all of his friends with their issues.

Courfeyrac majored in journalism and has found himself a job with the local newspaper. It has him chasing after small stories, interviewing locals who started a new business or saved a drowning cat. He meets lots of new people and he thoroughly enjoys it. Occasionally his deadlines have him working through the night, but he doesn’t really mind.

\--

This is how he realises he’s in trouble:

They’re at the Corinthe, and Enjolras is in the middle of divvying up the tasks for the protest they’re organising in two weeks. Courfeyrac’s in the back with Marius and Grantaire. They’ve already put in a lot of work over the past few weeks and all three of them have deadlines coming up, so they’re literally and figuratively taking a back seat for a while.

“Eponine, could you contact the mayor’s office again?” Enjolras says. “I don’t think they responded to that last email, and if they—”

“HOLY FUCK!” Jehan screeches suddenly, jumping out of zir seat and frantically waving zir arms. “Holy _fuck_ what _was_ that there’s a _thing that was in my face_!”

“There!” Bahorel shouts. He gestures upward, and Courfeyrac spots a flutter of wings, some kind of insect frantically flapping around the room.

“I’ve got it,” Bossuet announces over the ensuing chatter, jumping up and grabbing the nearest book. He’s halfway across the room and about to strike before anyone can make another move, but then there’s another shout.

“No, don’t!”

Bossuet attempts to stop the book mid-swing, loses his balance, and promptly crashes to the floor. The insect – some kind of butterfly, as far as Courfeyrac can tell – nervously flutters on. Everyone turns to Combeferre, who prematurely interrupted Bossuet’s hunt.

“Why would you want to _kill_ it?” he asks, sounding half surprised and half heartbroken. Courfeyrac feels his stomach clench at the unhappy look on Combeferre’s face.

“Let me,” Combeferre continues. He grabs the nearest glass and approaches the insect, which has landed on one of the Corinthe’s dingy walls. Within two seconds, he’s expertly placed the glass over the little animal. He picks up a coaster and gently slides it underneath, and then he returns to their little group with an unmistakable gleam in his eyes. Despite the earlier uproar, people are now leaning in to see the glass better. Courfeyrac can just make out that the insect inside is remarkably big and could be mistaken for a tiny bird.

“It’s a hummingbird hawk-moth,” Combeferre says, his eyes trained on what is apparently not a butterfly. You’d think Courfeyrac would know the difference, after sharing a flat with Combeferre for two years. “ _Macroglossum stellatarum_ ,” Combeferre continues. “It can hang so still while drinking that it was named after hummingbirds. It’s one of the very few hawk-moths that fly even during rain. Did you know there’s a species of hawk-moths that was predicted to exist by Charles Darwin before it was even found? Darwin found an orchid with a foot-long corolla tube and predicted the existence of insects with tongues that long. They didn’t find the actual moth until thirty years later.”

Courfeyrac can’t help but smile at his best friend’s obvious enthusiasm. _I can’t believe how much I love that nerd_ , he thinks to himself. That thought rings with so much truth that it suddenly strikes him just how desperately he needs Combeferre in his life.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he whispers under his breath.

“Are you all right?” Marius asks from his left.

“Just… not all that fond of big insects?” he ventures quickly.

“Then how do you live in one flat with _him_?” Grantaire reasonably points out.

Courfeyrac doesn’t respond.

\--

“Any dates this weekend?” Combeferre asks. He’s on the couch next to Courfeyrac. The television is on and Courfeyrac is watching it, but Combeferre predictably has his nose in a book. A book about moths.

“Nope,” Courfeyrac says lightly.

Enjolras’ voice drifts through his open bedroom door. “Should I be worried, Courf? This is the fourth weekend in a row.”

“Nope.” He strains to keep his tone light still, though probably Enjolras _should_ be worried. However, he really, really cannot discuss the matter with either of his best friends.

He’s found he can’t really go on dates with strangers when he’s head over heels for Combeferre. He tried, and that three-date spiel had been fun. But when he’d made it to the third date, he realised he wasn’t even sticking to the routine anymore. Rather than fruitlessly attempting to convince himself to talk about his lack of a sex drive, he’s just waiting for the point where he can break things off.

The dates are still enjoyable – he does like meeting new people and going out for drinks or dinner. But it doesn’t feel fair to the other person to date them when he knows he’d rather date someone else. That’s an even shittier reason to break things off than his complete and utter incapacity to discuss his personal dating weirdness.

Now he restrains himself and doesn’t ask out the cute cashier or the assistant from work or the guy at the coffee shop. It means he’s home more on the weekends. That has the added benefit of getting more work done, so he doesn’t have to rush to meet his deadlines. It has the mixed-blessing of being around Combeferre more. He loves spending time with his best friend, that’s not it, but it’s hard. They’ve always been tactile – hands on shoulders for casual reassurance, play fights when they need to unload after a stressful day, hugs whenever Courfeyrac feels like it. It’s difficult to keep that up after his realisation. Touching Combeferre suddenly feels more meaningful, or at least like it _should_ be more meaningful. As a result, he’s doing it less. Now he goes to Enjolras to get his daily hug dosage. Enjolras doesn’t seem to have noticed the increase in hugs yet, and Courfeyrac hopes Combeferre hasn’t noticed the decrease.

He’s considered asking Combeferre out. In fact, he’s considered it at length, thinking it through for hours at end while he’s supposed to work or sleep or pay attention to his surroundings. In the end, he couldn’t do it. It would probably result in a no – Combeferre has never dated, to his knowledge, much less given any indication of being interested in Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac wouldn’t know what to do with himself if Combeferre said no. Combeferre would be kind about it, of course he would, but it would inevitably change things, however slight.

And if it resulted in a yes, well, he still wouldn’t know what to do with himself. He’s never managed to confess his lack of desire for sex to anyone when the stakes were practically non-existent. He can’t imagine having to disappoint Combeferre like that. Can’t imagine trapping Combeferre in a relationship where he’ll inevitably be unsatisfied.

“All right, I’m off,” Enjolras says. Courfeyrac pulls his gaze from the show he’s not paying attention to. Enjolras is in the doorway in his favourite red coat.

“Where to?” Courfeyrac asks, suddenly desperate not to be alone with Combeferre. He wants Enjolras there as a distraction, so he doesn’t have to keep thinking about his pathetic crush on Combeferre.

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Anniversary date with ‘Taire?”

“Right,” Courfeyrac mumbles, because he did actually know that.

“Have fun,” Combeferre says, and then Enjolras is gone.

Courfeyrac tries to focus on the TV, he really does, but when Combeferre speaks up fifteen minutes later he can barely remember what show he’s watching. “Shall I cook?”

“Yeah, sure,” he mutters.

Combeferre closes his book and disappears to the kitchen. With him out of sight, Courfeyrac finally notices that he’s watching Family Guy, and frantically switches channels.

Combeferre makes curry, which is Courfeyrac’s favourite. The delicious smell soothes his nerves a bit. By the time they sit down at the kitchen table, he feels like his usual self again. They talk about work and about last week’s rally and Les Amis’ next project. It feels normal, and Courfeyrac breathes a little easier. Maybe he’ll get over his crush soon and go back to his ordinary friendship and his not-ordinary dating life.

“Want to watch a movie?” Combeferre asks during the dishes.

“Sure,” Courfeyrac says, before he realises that _movie_ usually means _cuddle up on the couch_. By the time his brain has got him that far, Combeferre is running through options and it’s too late to back out.

That’s how he ends up uncomfortably but determinedly leaning against Combeferre, trying not to freak out and once again with no clue what he’s watching. He doesn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved when Combeferre pauses the movie and gently pushes him upright.

He assumes Combeferre needs to go to the bathroom or remembered something he needs to do, but instead Combeferre fixes him with a calculating look.

Definitely not relieved, then. Courfeyrac nervously taps his sock-clad foot against the carpet.

“Courf, are you all right?” Combeferre asks after a few seconds of tense silence.

He’s pleased to find that his voice sounds completely normal when he answers, “Of course I’m all right, why wouldn’t I be?”

Combeferre shakes his head, and Courfeyrac’s heart sinks. Of course there’s no  fooling his best friend. “You’re tense. I can feel it, usually you just kind of slump against me but now…” He waves his hands around. “And you’ve been acting odd for at least two weeks.”

“No, I haven’t,” he protests reflexively.

Combeferre just gives him a look. “You were watching _Family Guy_ ,” he points out. “I have _never_ seen you watch Family Guy. I _have_ heard you moan about its complete lack of original, non-offensive jokes on several occasions.”

“Right,” he mutters.

“I’m worried about you,” Combeferre says, and it’s just completely unfair how that makes Courfeyrac’s heart beat faster. “You haven’t dated in four weeks, either.”

“Yeah, well maybe I just don’t want to,” Courfeyrac suddenly snaps. He feels guilty immediately when he sees Combeferre flinch. “Sorry, sorry,” he says, reflexively reaching out for Combeferre’s hand.

“I shouldn’t have pried,” Combeferre says. “I’m sorry. We can just go back to the movie if you’d rather.” He looks sad and still worried and maybe also a bit disappointed that Courfeyrac is keeping secrets from him.

It’s that last part which makes it impossible to stay quiet. “There’s someone I like,” he says quietly.

Combeferre frowns in thought. “Well, can’t you ask them out?”

“No,” he says bitterly.

“Why not?”

He shrugs, trying to ignore the way his heart pounds in his chest. He needs to stop this conversation before it goes too far. On the other hand, he talks to Combeferre about almost everything. He doesn’t want to keep secrets. “What if they say no?” he mumbles.

“That’s never stopped you before.” Combeferre still looks puzzled, and Courfeyrac can’t help but continue.

“This time it does.”

“What’s different?” Combeferre asks.

“I don’t know,” he says miserably. “I like them a lot.” It’s only part of the reason, but if he mentions that the object of his affections is a close friend, Combeferre will absolutely start guessing. That’s a disaster whether he guesses right or wrong.

“You’re normally so confident,” Combeferre says. “I admire that, you know.” He’s smiling at Courfeyrac, that encouraging smile of his. Courfeyrac can’t help but smile back. “I like how you always just go for it and ask someone out.”

“Not this time,” he says.

“You still could. What’s the worst that can happen?”

The worst that can happen is actually pretty terrifying, but Combeferre doesn’t know that. “Right,” Courfeyrac says. He appreciates Combeferre’s efforts, but this conversation isn’t making him feel any better.

Combeferre can see it, too. “Do you… want to tell me about them?” he asks carefully.

Courfeyrac pulls his legs up onto the couch and picks at the seam of his jeans. He dimly notices that his hands are shaking.

Combeferre covers his hand with his own, dark skin against light. “Hey,” he says. “It’s okay. You don’t have to. Sorry, I’m clearly doing this all wrong. Do you just want a hug or something?”

He wants to give in to that, but he can’t help but question the fairness of it. Combeferre doesn’t know what’s going on; can Courfeyrac really ask for physical contact when his friend is in the dark about his true motivations?

It’s that consideration which finally makes him say, “It’s you,” in a tiny voice.

“What?” Combeferre asks.

“It’s you,” he repeats, slightly more steady now that he’s made his choice. He still can’t look Combeferre in the eye, though, and instead stares at their clasped hands.

“Oh. _Oh_ ,” Combeferre says, in this tone that Courfeyrac has heard a thousand times when Combeferre made some kind of fascinating discovery or realised some fact.

For a long moment, there’s no further response. Combeferre has gone still, and Courfeyrac can tell he’s thinking it over. Combeferre thinks _everything_ over, so that’s not necessarily a bad sign. Still, Courfeyrac can’t deny that he’d secretly hoped Combeferre would give a more immediate and enthusiastic response.

Eventually, Combeferre squeezes his hand. “I should warn you,” he says, “that I’ve never been in a relationship. Also, I have in fact considered the possibility of dating you before, and I am open to trying, but… well, it wouldn’t be the truth to say I feel the same way you do. Like I said, though, I’m willing to give it a try and see if it works. Is that… would that still be something you’re interested in?”

Courfeyrac’s heart speeds up even more, which doesn’t seem healthy at all. He peeks up at Combeferre’s face and finds him smiling warmly. He wants to just blurt out a yes, but he knows Combeferre wants him to consider what he’s just said. Still, saying no is just not an option. He wonders briefly what “considered the possibility of dating” means, but in the end it doesn’t really matter. If Combeferre is willing to try, there’s only one answer. “Yes,” he says, and Combeferre’s smile widens.

“Good,” he says. “Courfeyrac, will you go on a date with me?”

Nothing about this is remotely what Courfeyrac is used to – weeks of pining, nervousness, the other person asking _him_ out instead of the other way around. “Okay,” Courfeyrac breathes, hardly daring to believe that he’s not dreaming. Combeferre gently tugs on his hand, and Courfeyrac immediately folds himself against his side. The tension drains from his body, leaving an odd combination of boundless excitement and exhaustion.

Combeferre turns the movie back on, and they watch it through all the way to the end. It’s only during the credits that Courfeyrac says, “So, want to get coffee with me tomorrow?” It’s not that much different from any of a hundred invitations they’ve exchanged over the years, but he’s sure they can both feel the weight in the words this time.

“Absolutely,” Combeferre says.

\--

They’re taking it slow. It’s Combeferre’s idea, and Courfeyrac agrees willingly. It’s mostly for the sake of Combeferre, who hadn’t expected to be dating Courfeyrac. However, Courfeyrac would be lying if he said there were no selfish reasons. He can’t pass up any opportunity to postpone the moment when sex will become a realistic option in their relationship. Part of him hopes that it will be different this time, that eventually he will want to have sex with Combeferre. Only time will tell, so he agrees: they’re not boyfriends, just dating. Not much changes at first, which is a little odd. They already spend a lot of time together. They go out for drinks more often and watch more movies together when Enjolras isn’t home. Once or twice they go out for dinner.

Two months after Courfeyrac confessed his attraction, they’re having coffee at the Musain for old time’s sake when Combeferre takes his hand and smiles at him. “I really enjoy dating you,” he says earnestly. It makes Courfeyrac blush. “This is all still pretty new to me, but… I really like you. And I know I said back then that I don’t quite feel the same way, but now… well, I was just wondering, would you like to, ah, make it official? Be my boyfriend?”

The word fills Courfeyrac with equal parts bliss and trepidation, because surely this means he won’t be able to hide his weirdness much longer. But this is what he wants, so he grins and nods and squeezes Combeferre’s hand. They end up just gazing at each other like love-struck fools for a while, and it’s the best thing ever.

When they’re back home, Combeferre curls up on the couch with a medical text. Courfeyrac grabs his iPod and stretches out on the couch with his head in Combeferre’s lap. Combeferre smiles down at him and leans in to press a kiss against his forehead. Then he starts running his fingers through Courfeyrac’s hair as he reads, and it’s perfect and glorious and Courfeyrac never wants it to stop.

They share their first kiss the next day, when Courfeyrac comes home from work to find Combeferre cooking. Enjolras probably won’t be home for a while, because he works a ridiculous amount of overtime. Combeferre has earbuds in and hasn’t noticed him yet. Courfeyrac stands in the doorway to the kitchen for a while, just watching as Combeferre cuts up vegetables and throws some kind of sauce together. He can’t get over how much he’s in love with Combeferre. So when he’s finally noticed and Combeferre pulls his headphones out and smiles at him, he forgets that kissing brings him one step closer to sex. He just steps in and puts his hands on Combeferre’s shoulders and says, “May I kiss you?”

Combeferre nods and dips his head down because he’s ridiculously tall. He presses their lips together, and Courfeyrac closes his eyes and presses closer to Combeferre. He can tell Combeferre doesn’t have a lot of kissing experience; he opens his mouth just a little too much and he clearly has no idea what to do with his tongue. But Courfeyrac doesn’t really care; he just tilts his head to improve the angle and guides Combeferre’s mouth with his.

That’s when a voice behind them says, “Well, this is new.” They jump apart to find Enjolras in the door opening, one eyebrow raised.

“Um,” Courfeyrac says. He’s not often lost for words, but this is clearly one of those times.

“Grantaire loves to tell me I’m oblivious, but I can’t believe I missed the fact that my two best friends are dating,” Enjolras says, shrugging out of his coat. He’s frowning a little, but on the scale of Calm Enjolras to Avenging Angel Enjolras, it barely rates a two, so he’s probably not too upset.

“You missed the fact that he was in love with you for, like, three years,” Courfeyrac helpfully supplies.

Combeferre elbows him in the side. “It’s rather new,” he tells Enjolras. Then, with a start, he turns to the stove. “My sauce,” he blurts, hastily stirring in one of his pots.

Courfeyrac chuckles and pulls out a chair at the kitchen table. “Sit down,” he tells Enjolras. “I’ll regale you with the tales of how I wooed Ferre.”

Behind him, Combeferre snickers. “Right, you _wooed_ me.”

“Shut up, Ferre. I so did.”

“I’m waiting,” Enjolras says, but he’s already smiling.

\--

There’s an increasing amount of kissing over the next few weeks. Combeferre has evidently noticed that Courfeyrac is the more skilled one of the two of them, so he follows his lead and asks questions about how to improve his technique. It’s as adorably nerdy as anything else he does, and Courfeyrac thoroughly enjoys teaching him. Every time they kiss, though, a little voice in the back of his head tells him this won’t last forever. One day – probably one day soon – Combeferre is going to want more.

He tries to want it too, he really does. He tries to imagine sex with Combeferre, tries to picture it as something pleasurable. He’s sure it would be better than with Anne, because he loves Combeferre far more, but it’s still not working. He could suffer through sex for Combeferre’s sake – there’s little he wouldn’t do for Combeferre – but the thought just doesn’t appeal to him at all. And it _should_ , he knows that much. He’s supposed to love the idea of sex with his boyfriend. The very thought should arouse him, but instead it just fills him with a vague sort of dread which in turn makes him panic.

It’s obvious that he can’t hide it forever, especially when they start regularly cuddling and kissing on his or Combeferre’s bed. He doesn’t want to disappoint Combeferre, doesn’t want to confess his abnormality. What if Combeferre leaves? Courfeyrac has never, in his extensive dating experience, come across someone who didn’t expect sex to be part of the deal. He hates that the person he’ll have to disappoint is the one he wants most of all.

There’s nothing for it. They’ve just come home from the cinema when he decides that he really needs to tell Combeferre. Even after that, he waits in increasing stages of trepidation until they’re lying on Combeferre’s bed. He’s curled up against Combeferre’s chest and Combeferre is running his fingers through his hair.

“You okay?” he asks, because of course he notices Courfeyrac’s nerves.

“I need to talk to you about something,” he says. No way back now.

“What is it?” Combeferre’s voice is patient as ever. It calms him a little, but not much.

“I, uh.” He hesitates, realising that he hasn’t thought this through at all. He could’ve at least rehearsed how he’d say this. “I, it’s, it’s about sex.”

“Okay,” Combeferre says cautiously.

“I’m really sorry,” he blurts out, because guilt is definitely the prevailing emotion here, and Combeferre likes to be open about emotions, so that’s a good start. “Really, really sorry and I should’ve told you this before, but I just… I don’t like sex? I had sex once but it was terrible, and I know that that’s just one time, but the thing is I don’t _want_ to have sex with people at all. Not even with you. I really tried, okay, I tried to want it, but I just don’t want to, and I will have sex with you if you want me to because I know it’s not fair to do that to you, and I’m really sorry, I’m _so_ sorry, I just don’t know what’s wrong with me…”

He cringes, embarrassed at his long rant and even more embarrassed to realise there are tears in the corners of his eyes. His head ducks down and he waits for the inevitable blow to fall, for Combeferre to tell him that if he’s this abnormal, their relationship isn’t going to work out.

“You’re asexual?” Combeferre says. He sounds… perfectly calm, which is unexpected.

“What?” Courfeyrac says.

“Asexual,” Combeferre repeats. “You don’t experience sexual attraction to people.”

“There’s a word for that?” he breathes, glancing up at Combeferre.

“There’s words for _everything_ ,” Combeferre says, which is just such a Combeferre thing to say that it startles an unexpected giggle out of Courfeyrac. Combeferre cups his cheek and wipes away a tear with his thumb. “And there’s nothing wrong with you.”

“There’s not?”

At that point Combeferre really picks up steam. “No!” he says determinedly, after which, to Courfeyrac’s eternal surprise, he launches into full Geek Mode. “You’re perfectly normal. People have been identifying as asexual for decades, you know, even if it took the medical and psychological community a while to catch up. There were surveys in 2004 and 2006 and it’s estimated that between one and four percent of the population doesn’t experience sexual attraction to other people. It’s sometimes misclassified as a disorder of low arousal, but asexuality organisations view it as a sexual orientation – you know, heterosexual, pansexual, asexual.” Courfeyrac’s head is spinning as his worldview shifts – _he’s not the only one he’s not the only one he’s not the only one_ – and he tries to wrap his mind around the fact that Combeferre is not upset or disappointed or angry. Beside him, Combeferre is still talking. “The medical community is starting to come around to that point of view as well, though there’s still some debate, especially in the case of people who did experience sexual attraction at some point but then stop experiencing it later. And there are so many options even within the asexuality spectrum, it’s amazing. Some people experience sexual attraction but only very rarely, so they might call themselves gray-A, you know, with the A for asexual, and then there’s demisexual for people who need to have a strong connection with someone before they’re sexually attracted to them. Demisexual, demi for half, isn’t it great that people put Greek prefixes to good use?”

Courfeyrac is gaping at him. He can’t seem to remember how to move his facial muscles. “Uh, yes?” he manages.

Combeferre abruptly shuts his mouth. “Sorry. Sorry, uh, I didn’t mean to get distracted.”

“I need to hug you right now,” Courfeyrac tells him. Combeferre shifts so Courfeyrac can wiggle his arms around him, and Courfeyrac does so and squeezes tight, pressing his face against the chest of his wonderful nerd of a boyfriend.

Combeferre presses kisses to his hair and his forehead and rubs circles into his back. “You didn’t know,” he says.

Courfeyrac shakes his head. “I thought… never mind,” he mumbles. “It’s not… Are you okay? With it?”

“Yes,” Combeferre says. “And just for the record, I would _never_ ask you to have sex with me unless you really wanted to.”

“Oh,” he whispers. He clings to Combeferre in silence for about half a minute before he says, “Go on then, I know you weren’t done with your information fountain.”

“Well… do you want to hear about romantic orientations?” Combeferre asks.

Courfeyrac nods against Combeferre’s chest. He wants to hear it, he wants to hear _all_ of it. Combeferre doesn’t think he’s weird or abnormal or a freak, he’s just asexual. Asexual. And he’s not the only one. And Combeferre would _never ask him to have sex with him_.

Just above his head, Combeferre is talking about romantic orientations, but Courfeyrac doesn’t really pay attention. Odds are that Combeferre has articles about this, though – he can read them later. For now, he’s not sure whether to laugh or cry as Combeferre’s low, steady voice washes over him, reminding him that he’s normal. Normal and loved.

\--

This is the routine:

They go out for dinner or drinks and invariably stay out for much longer than they’d planned. When they come home, they whisper so they don’t wake Enjolras, though half the time he’s staying over at Grantaire’s anyway.

They bicker over whose bed, because Combeferre’s is bigger and has more pillows but Courfeyrac’s has a softer mattress and a really fluffy blanket. They change into pyjamas and crawl into whichever bed they chose.

“Don’t steal the blanket,” Combeferre will say.

“Only if you don’t snore,” Courfeyrac will respond.

Then they curl up under the covers. Generally, Courfeyrac’s head ends up in the crook between Combeferre’s head and his shoulder. At least one of Combeferre’s hands buries itself in his hair.

“I love you,” Combeferre says.

“I love you, too,” he responds.

They cuddle. Then they fall asleep.

Courfeyrac likes the new routine _much_ more than the old one.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Shout-out to Marnel who literally is Combeferre and who took a grand total of eight seconds to respond with "CECROPIA" after I skyped him to ask for moth species ("it actually took me one second but I wanted to double-check the spelling"). It didn't end up being a cecropia. But he also came up with the hummingbird hawk-moth and all its facts. Kudos :D


End file.
